Wristcutters: A Love Story
by Paxa.Romana
Summary: Troy kissed me again. “I don’t want you to go away,” he mumbled. My head on his shoulder, I smiled absentmindedly at the darkness around us. “I’m right here,” I reassured him, “Brie’s right here.”
1. This and That

Wristcutters: A Love Story

A Fiveshot by Desireé Lemmon

Disclaimer: We've been over this…

A/N: No, this isn't based off the movie. I just loved the title and the idea popped into my head a little while back. This is a slightly different side story, something I'll write when I'm stuck on Poster Child. Hope you enjoy it! It's a little somber… Come on, angst is ah-ddicting! -love- Desireé

Part One, This and That

Of _course_ I didn't meant to be so rash. Honestly, some people are so judgmental, there are days where I could just grab them by the shoulders and shake them. That is, if I had the strength. Lately, though, I was awfully delicate and extremely tired and, perhaps, unhealthily melancholy. Kelsi was the first to notice; Taylor had been too busy brooding after Chad had dumped her for Sharpay. _That_ was quite a shock. The basketball oaf and drama queen, together? Never. But, alas, if reality was predictable I'm sure my mother could have seen my tragedy much sooner and saved me before it was too late.

I'm not exactly certain where I first got the notion that this was remotely safe. In the movies, or on television, you could see the pristine line across the character's wrist, perfected by the make-up artist. As I dragged my finger along the scarring mark that had formed on my arm, I realized that this was nothing close to what was in the movies. _That_ was fictitious. _This_ was clearly an actuality.

On some days, I would dig around the house for something sharp. My mother had gotten into a cooking phase, and it was lasting unusually long, thus making her culinary utensils a no-go. At one point, I found an exacto knife, and its blade was just honed enough to draw blood when I pressed it against my skin. Some idiot found it in my backpack when he was looking for a pencil in math class, and he asked me why it was red. I seized it from him angrily and hissed that he never mention it again. Next to me, Holly Blanche had overheard and, being the L-7 that she was, snitched to the teacher. Mr. Redmond talked to Principal Matsui, who immediately phoned my mother. Boy, was Theresa steamed. By then I had cleaned the blade, so there was no real proof of my 'dangerous activity', unless you counted the faint grooves that were appearing beneath my palm. She demanded I stop the 'foolish games I was playing' or she would 'send me away to a health center'. Silently, I hoped she would. Albuquerque was stale enough to put a girl to sleep.

After that, I realized I had to be much more careful. I wore long sleeves, even when it was hot, and whenever I was forced to show my arms, bracelets became my best friends. Of course, there would have been people who may have thought I was putting too much effort into something as useless to them as cutting, but to me, it was no longer an option. I was falling into the world of addiction.

Kelsi confronted me about it one day, about two months after the first incision had been made. She picked up my arm during the passing period between fourth and fifth period. My hand pointed toward the ceiling, my bracelets fell to my elbow. The skin-colored cloth showed two thin blood red strokes across the underside. She narrowed her eyes. "Don't do this to yourself" was the first thing to come out her mouth.

I ripped my arm out of her grasp. "I'm not doing anything to myself," I snapped, a little more angrily than I had wanted. She looked offended as I added, "And even if I was, it wouldn't be any of your business."

It was only probable that Kelsi, a usual follower of our group, would tell someone else about it, because she was 'concerned for my personal welfare'. _That_ was a load of crap, and we all knew it. I had no problem vocalizing my thoughts on the matter of said crap until Taylor came up to me a few days later, sometime during the lunch hour. I was hovering over a sink in the bathroom with my forearms on either side, watching the water fill the basin, small air bubbles rising up from the plugged drain. "Gabriella," she spoke skeptically, and picked up my arm, just like Kelsi had. This time I didn't resist as she tugged the bracelets away. Her face fell. "Oh, Gabriella."

For someone like Taylor, it was safe to say she would have lectured me on the importance of guidance and the dangers of self-mutilation. Instead, she swallowed me into a hug, and I sank into her body, letting her absorb the ache I had carried for longer than I knew. "Gabriella, Gabriella," she whispered dotingly, "What are we going to do with you?"

It was a rhetorical question, of course. She knew, just as I did, that there was nothing to be done. It seemed Taylor was the only one who could accept this. Kelsi nagged at me for the weeks to come; sometimes Martha and a few other girls stared and whispered in the hallway as I tugged my jacket on a little tighter and walked a little faster. Chad and Zeke and Jason all muttered whenever I was around, as if hoping their low voices would stop me from hearing what they said. They weren't too bright, obviously, because I could hear perfectly well. They were murmuring all sorts of things, from my alleged drug abuse, to attempted suicide, and even my mythical quest for a greater glory in another dimension. Maybe the basketball oaf and his cronies all assumed I was under the impression that hauling a blade across my wrist wound send me to an alternate universe. As if.

One day, Troy came over. I wasn't sure why, but there must have been no surprise on my face when I answered the door because he simply pulled me toward him and kissed me. It wasn't our first kiss—we had been fooling around some time earlier in the year. But then we stopped, and he got around to meeting Francesca, some foreign exchange student. Troy was the Play Boy, and I remained alone, unless the exacto knife counted as a boyfriend. In my book, it didn't, so I was alone.

Our kiss was something special to me. His lips still tasted sweet, like he had just licked the caramel off of a candy apple. When we pulled away, I stared at him. "Why are you here?" I asked brazenly. Albeit I liked the way his mouth felt against mine, I wasn't so confident about exposing my vulnerability to him.

"I wanted to make sure you were still here," he said, with a slight terror in his voice. "God, Gabriella, I had to see you, just so I knew you weren't gone." I still meant something to him.

My hand found his and I closed the door behind us as we walked upstairs. In my room, he sat on the edge of the bed, and I was beside him. He was observing my three square feet of privacy, which had become especially bare in recent times. There were two pictures altogether: one of me and a childhood playmate of whom I was quite fond, and the other of my mother and me. Neither of us seemed happy, which added to the list of ways we looked alike.

More kisses and more fooling around. My blouse had gotten thrown somewhere across the room at one point. I wasn't sure how it had happened, really, but soon I found myself fervently making out with Troy like our lives depended on it. I was unaware of it at the time, but in a way, they did. "Fuck," he whispered to the walls around us when we finally lay back down. I was picking at some lint on the elastic band of his boxers.

"Fuck," I whispered back. "It's a funny word."

"Gabriella?" he asked.

"Yes?" I replied.

"What are you doing?"

I laughed halfheartedly. "Lying here with you."

"No," he said quietly. "I'm talking about what you are doing to yourself."

He knew I knew what he was talking about. Any girl would know what he was talking about. I turned to him and reached up to brush away his bangs. His indigo eyes were sad and frightened, as if he had the premonition that where I lay now, in his arms, would be the last time I would ever be within reach. Maybe he was right.

"I have no idea," I sighed in an almost inaudible whisper. "But I can't help it."

"Gabriella," he began again, but I put a finger to his lips and shushed him.

My free hand combing through his hair, I said in a sultry tone, "I haven't had good sex in a long time. Have you had good sex recently?" He shook his head. "It's a curse. Senioritis, perhaps." I leaned up and our lips met, and the pulse in his fingers that urged him to examine my wrists died away.

…

My mother asked me if I still cut one afternoon following my first encounter with Troy. I was careful not to answer too quickly; _that_ would seem prepared, as if I knew this question would come up, which I did. "No," I responded confidently, "I don't."

I couldn't figure out when I had become such a good liar. A month ago? A year ago? There were plenty of things that I couldn't understand anymore, as if the cutting was like a high. I didn't comprehend, or remember, what rambled through my brain as the first drops of blood shone through my skin. Self-mutilation. Not really.

At school, I found the inevitably to run into Troy was going at an extreme level. I seemed to bump into him in every passing period, and always twice at lunch, for the weeks that trailed along our evening of fooling around. He seemed embarrassed at first, but eventually the awkwardness abated. Any time I smacked into him while not paying attention or he tripped over a shoelace and collided with me, we acted like it was no big deal. To us, though, to two teenagers who were secretly in love but with whom exactly, we weren't sure, it _was_ a big deal.

The second meeting with Troy happened at my house, again. My mother had invited his family over for dinner. There were six of us, if you counted Jack's mother, Sissy. She was a much older lady who Troy did not like, and vice versa, which led both of us to hide in the gazebo in the backyard after the main dinner (which wasn't too great either. My mom's cooking phase wasn't exactly paying off). We stared at the sky for a while, before Troy kissed me again. "I don't want you to go away," he mumbled.

My head on his shoulder, I smiled absentmindedly at the darkness around us. "I'm right here," I reassured him, "Brie's right here."

…

True, there was rehab and therapy and support groups that got people like me through the shit that we were dealt at the card table. I had a particularly crappy deck one afternoon, when I had been so angry (and for some dumb reason) that I slashed at my arm quite violently in the middle of the west wing girls' bathroom. Katie Leonard walked in and seemed to slip on the two small drops of water spilled on the tile floor. I could see the pain develop in her face when she landed right on her tailbone, but that didn't stop her from rushing back out the door again. "Pansy," I shouted after her. No one heard, I think.

Despite all the self-help books and the You-Can-Do-It motivational speaker crap, I found I was especially alone around that time. I hadn't spoken to Troy much, although he called more often than not. It was a sweet gesture, but until then at least, I didn't want to get involved. Now I was desperate for company. My mother, I suppose, deduced that I was honest when I told her I wasn't cutting anymore. "How ridiculous!" I had told the stuffed giraffe on my bed. "A mother should know teenagers lie!"

It was a Sunday when Troy called again, and I stupidly picked up. I just wanted to hear his voice. "You're killing me," he laughed. "Half the time I don't know if you even still live in this town and half the time I think you're dead. Answer the phone, will you?"

"Ah, sometimes I don't feel like talking," I replied nonchalantly. I leaned against the icy refrigerator and a chill ran down my spine. I guessed from temperature of the stainless steel.

"Do you feel like talking today?" he asked.

I knew it wouldn't be over a phone call. "Where?"

"The park, midnight tonight. Meet me." He chuckled slightly at my none-too-quick response. "Don't worry, it isn't an ambush. It'll be just me, so just you, okay?"

I agreed. "Uh huh." There was a pause. "Thanks, Troy."

"For what?" he asked, even if I knew he knew just what it was I liked so much that I would take the moment to thank him.

"You know," I answered. "For anything. I just think it's nice you stuck around." He mumbled something incoherent and I smiled into the receiver, strangely understanding every word. Finally, someone who spoke my language.

A/N: Okay, Gabriella is completely out of character here. I mean completely. I dearly apologize if the prompt (cutting) offends anyone—I just got the idea in my head while writing Poster. Now, REVIEW!!! You guys are love. :) -so totally happy- Desireé


	2. Bleeding, Broken: Same Difference

A/N: Again, I apologize if this offends anyone. But this seems to be giving me some sort of writing strength, so I'll continue. Hope y'all enjoy this part of the story. -love- Desireé

Part Two, Bleeding, Broken: Same Difference

I knew other cutters at school; we never flocked together, that would be too suspicious, but we mingled sometimes when we passed in the hallway. There was a junior named Nadine, and she was pretty cool. We met up in the bathroom one time and she was carving some phrase into her arm. Later I saw it read out in big letters _SOS_. She said it was just out of boredom, but a small part of me knew exactly what it meant—send help.

A few other cutters included the senior class' Mariah Fischer, Austin Arbor, and Matt Grivets. One day Mariah invited me to go with them after school for some fast food, and then over to Austin's just to hang out. I remember looking back, and seeing Troy standing at his locker, filling his bag with the day's textbooks. He glanced up and caught my eye with a smile, but I looked away and nodded subtly to Mariah. Guilt, for once, got to me.

But now here I was, walking in the middle of the night toward the park a few blocks from home. When I got my sweatshirt as the weekend's rerun of _Saturday Night Live_ played its monologue, my mother asked where I was going. "Drug store," I replied hastily, and I was out the door. It didn't surprise me that she had no response. I suppose she still surmised my mental health.

When I reached the park, I saw him. He sat on one of the cement tables, his feet on the bench and his elbow on his knees. I smiled in his direction and tugged on my sleeves as he called out, "Hey" through the glassy air between us.

"Hey," I replied, crawling up beside him. The table was cold beneath me. "God, I don't want to go to school tomorrow. Let's run away. We can get married in Las Vegas, and then we'll migrate east. I always wanted to live in New York City."

There was dullness in Troy's face before he grinned. "Okay."

My eyebrows quirked, I asked, "Really?"

He shook his head with a small smirk. "No, of course not." My shoulders slumped, and dragged me into a much needed hug. "I can't leave, and you can't leave. But let's make a deal. When we graduate, and we're legal, and we're completely free of all parental authority, we'll go on a road trip. Okay? Across the country. Together."

My lips twitched, eager to smile. "All right," I agreed. He leaned down and kissed me, and I was silently thankful I had grabbed my lip-gloss before I left.

…

Winter vacation seemed to be light years away when, in fact, only a few weeks of school were left. It was raining, well, really it was _pouring_ outside. Sheets of water slammed the earth, and none of us seemed excited about the upcoming holidays. I found myself more and more eager to find privacy during the day and slice a small portion of skin, and the urge scared me. Addiction was dangerous—I knew that much. But how do you control something no one cares to know about?

The end of the year progressed with little change. My interactions with Troy steadied—every day after school he would come over, and in my bedroom we 'did homework.' Once in a while, my mother would comment on how much work the teachers gave us, and he would just look at me, a sad smile on his face, as he picked up his jacket and walked out the door. I would wait on the porch, watching him until the Range Rover's lights died away when he would turn the corner at the end of the street. "Are you in love, Gabriella?" my mother teased one evening.

I sighed impatiently as she put a hand on my shoulder. "No," I said, shrugging off her touch, "I am not in love, Mother." There was a bleating tune in my head that taunted in a singsong voice _You are! You are! _A girl who cuts her wrists cannot do that, though. I couldn't admit that I was ready to give my heart to someone else.

When the semester ended and there was a crazy hoopla of singsong frolic, many a students singing something that involved the word 'Wintertime,' I was relieved. There was a danger at East High that I couldn't exactly avoid each day. Now, with vacation, I could be at peace. Troy still came over, and though our activities had dwindled to just fun messing around, I still felt sad when he would leave. Sometimes when Theresa would joke that he stick around and simply spend the night—I assume she figured out that homework was no longer the reason we spent long hours upstairs—my eyes would flicker and Troy would grin. "I wish," he would always say. My shoulders never failed to droop at these words.

My cutting became a sort of ritual. One wet day, approximately a week before Christmas, I bunched up all the clothes in my closet and threw them into a pile in the middle of my room. The boxes of shoes, the collections of cards, everything that sat at the bottom got moved out, too. I crawled in and pulled the door closed, gripping the exacto knife with my free hand. My mind was warbling with anger, and I wasn't sure why. In my head, the logic was that with every nick and gash I made, my fury would melt away and everything would be okay again. The problem was that my rage did not go away, and so I kept cutting. _Slice, slash, sever_. Repeat.

It must have been an hour until my arms were so bloody that my sweater was smeared with red, stained like it was part of the holiday theme. Tears ran down my cheeks and the knife dropped out of my hand, bumping against my foot and creating a small point of crimson liquid. Numbness; this was my goal. Another minute passed when my closet door abruptly opened and I realized how dark the small square of space had been. Towering over me, Troy stood, watching the blood rush from my limbs like little armies. "Oh, Gabriella," he choked, just like Taylor when she found me at school those many months ago. I cried harder.

He ushered me to the sink in my bathroom hurriedly and ran the cold water, sticking my wrists beneath the faucet. My tears merged with the blood below my face and I held my breath, trying to stop from crying any further. "No, no," he whispered, his face close to mine and his arm around my waist for support. "Crying is good, don't think about anything else. Just let it out."

I felt like I had waited for the blood to stop for a year before Troy finally shut the water off and reached for the gauze I had in the mirror cabinet. He took the first roll out and wrapped my arms gently, watching my face for any sign of pain. I was too weak to protest the slightest bit of discomfort, though. My head whirred with apprehension. As soon as both arms were swathed in the gossamer bandages, I collapsed against Troy and cried again. He kissed the top of my head and let my face relax in the crook of his chin and shoulder, my tears soaking our bodies. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," I wept, repeating the words again. But it was a mystery to each of us just exactly what it was for which I was apologizing.

…

There was something different about Troy when the Boltons came over Christmas Eve. He was a little skinnier, and much more pale. My episode the week before had been the last time I saw him. He had to go fly out to Los Angeles to get his grandmother, and then fly back. He expressed his misery over the phone on one occasion, but I hadn't spoken or listened much. That was why it was such a surprise to see his lamentable state that holiday night.

The Christmas tree in the corner was loosely decorated, with a few ornaments and a string of silver garland. My mother gathered the gifts Mr. and Mrs. Bolton brought and assembled them next to the pile of presents we had wrapped for one another. It would be the same old same old this year, like every year: pantyhose, maybe a necklace, and, if we were in good moods with lots of Christmastime cheer, perfume.

"Are you all right?" I asked hesitantly. Troy looked up. We were sitting at the kitchen counter, and he was fiddling with a rubber band quite anxiously. I searched for an answer in his eyes, but they were foggy with confusion.

"I don't think so," he said, staring down at the rubber band.

"Troy." I scratched my arm, and he looked up at me once more. "Do you—do you want to talk about it?"

He thought for a moment, before shaking his head. "I—I don't think so," he responded, and I nodded blankly, not sure why I was agreeing. He offered a smile, and I took it graciously, but there was something forced about it, as if he had to put in too much effort to bring it around.

The dinner, again, wasn't the greatest, so I excused myself after the appetizers and wandered outside. Troy followed suit and sat down next to me in the gazebo, where I had ended up in a daze. "I'm feeling kind of shitty right now," he murmured against my arm, where he had leaned down to rest his face. "How about you?"

I shrugged, and Troy slid down to my elbow unwillingly. He sat up. "I've been better," I said. Suddenly there was an out of place color in that dark night, among the blues and the blacks and the grays and the greens, and my eyes found it. A thick red line across Troy's wrist, which had a thin layer of chiffony fabric wound around it. "Troy—" My voice strained. "Troy." I tried and failed again, taking his lifeless arm into my lap. He didn't put up a fight. "Fuck, Troy."

"Gabriella, it's nothing," he replied. I knew, though, by the tone of his voice that it meant everything.

"No, it isn't _nothing_," I said, frightened. When had our roles switched? He was supposed to be the brave one, helping me along even though I had given up on myself a long time ago. "Troy, I'm—I'm not important. _I'm_ nothing. But you can't sell yourself out like this. You've got so much promise, Troy. Basketball, singing, all that. I'm just a screwed up student who doesn't know left from right." My voice began to turn into a pleading moan. "Don't do this to yourself." I was turning into Kelsi, into my mother, into everyone else. My rebellion was slowly morphing into the uniformity, and I had no idea how to stop that.

His face limp, Troy squinted at me. "Don't worry about me, Gabriella," he said earnestly. "I'm fine, I will be fine. It's not a matter of my welfare, it's yours." He kissed me with a hopeful face, as if maybe I would believe him. "I just wanted to see what it was like."

At that moment, I had to believe him. I had to arouse my faith and take his word for it—he only wanted to see what it was like; he was simply curious. Maybe he had trouble comforting me, and what better way to figure a person out than walking a mile in their shoes? My condition seemed to be more than a mile. It seemed to be the extent of the earth, the entire distance that stretched across every country and ocean mankind had come to know. And I forced myself to be grateful that Troy would do that for me; I obliged myself to appreciate his care for my greater good; I made sure that I thanked him for being such a wonderful friend and lover. I told him all this, despite the feeling of poison I tasted when I saw the second stroke of scarlet, peeking out from underneath his other sleeve.


	3. Happy New Year

A/N: Oh, so glad this is getting positive feedback. :) For any Poster readers, don't worry, I haven't abandoned it. I'm just stuck on one scene I'm writing, which probably won't make the final cut, anyway. Writer's block is **annoying**! Haha. :P But, the purpose of Wristcutters is when I can't seem to make sense of Poster! So, _voilá_. -love- Desireé

Cadence- Aw, thank you, that means quite a lot. I'm quite proud of this particular story, and I do have a somewhat happy ending in mind. I suppose angst can be transformed. :)

Part Three, Happy New Year

My story is just like that of any other cutter: we want attention. We crave some acknowledgment, after the feeling of negligence hits us like a lightning bolt, frying our nerves, our minds. That small ignorance affects so much of us, because just one _hello _or_ I_ _love you_ is nonexistent, therefore we have means to replace those expected, and very much appreciated, phrases one receives in a normal daily life. I suppose my mother told me she loved me often enough, and of course many greetings had been thrown my way over the course of my young lifetime. But that wasn't it. I needed someone to tell me I was beautiful, and worth the trouble of getting flowers, or taking to the local carnival. No one had told me that since my father left.

He wasn't the reason I bled as often as I did. But he _was_ the reason I ever had the idea that cutting was okay. It happened in the seventh grade, too long ago to be healthily dwelled upon. Any therapist would have easily said that I should move on, that five years was much too great of a time period for me to have any energy left to cry. But that was where they were horribly, completely, dreadfully wrong.

When he left, I wasn't angry that he was going. He had his reasons, so my short-lived rage was because he didn't take me _with him_. Truth be told, I had always loved my father a little more than my mother, and it was a matter of comfort and trust. Theresa seemed to clam up whenever I tried to talk to her, but my father never turned me away. When I had a problem, I became the only priority of his. My well-being and security was his prime concern, as it now was Troy's.

It happened when my mother introduced me to Jim, one of her co-workers, who came to our Fourth of July celebration. He was a balding man with a thin mouth and freckled cheeks, the typical American male with a few decades of bad clothing and getting stoned beneath his belt. My first response to him didn't exactly please Theresa. We stood, assembling the snacks table, on one side of the backyard. She pointed him out and my eyebrows knitted together, collaborating on the mean comments I could throw poor Jim's way. "Ew," I sneered, "Who got lost on the way to the Geek Convention?"

The look on Theresa's face was priceless. Her eyes blazed with angry flames, and her fists clenched, squishing some of the cheese cubes she had been so neatly exhibiting. "Jim's nice," she snapped angrily, "Don't you dare be rude to him when I introduce the two of you. He's asked a lot about you and I'm sure you can at least be courteous and get to know him."

Excuse me? Was this implying I would have _time_ to get to know him? Oh, no sir, I would not be warming up to this new eye candy for my mother. While my vexation clear showed through when I shook hands with Jim, there was simultaneous pining for my father. He called once a month, and he'd tell me where he was, whether it was Tibet or New Zealand or maybe Sri Lanka. He was the explorer who had all the time in the world, yet every day felt like my last. Now I envied him.

The idea of stepfather made me shutter. I wanted to throw up when my mom left for her date with Jim. Thank freaking goodness it hadn't gotten serious, otherwise I might have jumped off the balcony outside my bedroom. My mother never seemed loving around my father, but it was even weirder to see her with another guy. And a creepy, somewhat lanky, speckled one, no less. I suppose that would be my therapy group reason for cutting. A better word would be _motivation_, though. The real reason I cut was just because I could. Because I had nothing else going on.

Troy's excuse wasn't as evident. We got together on New Year's Eve, and he took my out to a movie. Only a few months later did I realize that it was our first date. The flick was a dramedy with Ryan Gosling, but I had absolutely no clue what it was about otherwise. I spent my entire time staring at Troy's wrists. Fresh, rich red detailed the spot where you would normally see his veins, and I couldn't help but pick up his arm a few times just to inspect the damage. He didn't impede my actions, which also worried me. What happens when the action hero gives up on himself, and there's still a damsel in distress tied to the railroad?

We went out for ice cream after the movies. Our drinks, popcorn, and candy hadn't been touched the entire time. The cleaning staff looked at us irritably when the final credits rolled; we were the only ones left by the last few lines which, I thought, no one read, ever. But I translated every word, every sentence, every bit of information, drinking in what was in front of me. It meant something to someone; I thought maybe it could mean something to me.

"Troy," I said softly. He looked up from his melting ice cream. We were sitting in Esmeralda's Ice Cream Parlor, only a few hours before midnight. People were screaming and hooting and rallying outside, while the parlor cashier was wiping down the counters. The street was dark, otherwise. For some reason, the ice cream shop was the only place that hadn't closed early for the holiday. "Troy, honey, let's go home. You don't look too well."

He shrugged, and a chocolate chip dripped onto the mint green table beneath us. "I'm fine," he replied coolly. I reached out and rested a hand on his balled fist. His knuckles shifted. "Gabriella, I'm all right. Don't worry about me." _That's all I can do_, I thought to myself.

"Oh, damn it, I can't do this anymore. I can't play the vague game anymore, it's too fucking ridiculous. Just, listen to me, for one second. You are everything, Troy; you've got everything going well for you—college next year, with a surefire basketball scholarship and a load of friends. I've thrown away everything I had, and it's my fault now. What are you doing to yourself? Why are you wasting away when you've got everything going for you?"

When he looked up, I saw his face was pale and he had a somewhat unfortunate stare. Over my shoulder, I glanced at the counter. The cashier was gone, to clean up the back, I assumed. "Gabriella," Troy said sternly, "I can't stand to see you suffer like this. I—well, no. Never mind. It's stupid."

"Go on," I coaxed, curious about what he had to say. Maybe it was exactly what I needed to get him to quit cutting.

"I just," he began, and swallowed before continuing, "I thought it was possible that if I suffered as much pain as you did, or maybe more, you'd stop. The pain I endured would be enough for you to stop ruining demolishing yourself." He observed my wrists, which were also recently stained with cherry rust. "Maybe the agony I felt could suffice your own misery. So you wouldn't have to deteriorate."

My entire body had been set on fire. No one had ever done something like that for me, for those reasons. "Oh," I said sullenly, my throat dry. My eyes were beginning to swell with tears. "Let's go home."

The walk back to my house was silent. His arm was around my shoulder by the time we reached our driveway, and I could see the lights on inside. Jim's car was parked in the driveway. I turned to Troy and kissed him gently before whispering, "Let's go around the back."

We climbed up to my balcony, and Troy slid his arms around my waist, his lips laying kisses along my neck. I let out a giggle, the first in a while. "I can't get the key with you doing _that_," I managed to say as I struggled for the spare that lay beneath the mat outside the door. I could feel his mouth smile against my shoulders, muffling an adolescent snicker that I knew he was dying to let out.

Inside, the darkness flooded our vision and all we knew was the miracle called love had been lacing out fingers together, running flesh against flesh, twisting and tangling my bed sheets. After what I thought was more incredible than any other time, I crawled beside Troy and pressed my forehead against his warm bicep. His arm was flung across the pillows, and his head turned toward the moonlight wilderness beyond my windows. When he sensed my presence, he leaned over and pressed his forehead to my temple. "I love you, Gabriella," he said under his breath, like he was afraid the walls were listening.

Those four words seemed like a foreign language. "I've been waiting for that," I said softly. "I love you, too, Troy."

We were quiet for the next few minutes, before I pushed myself beneath the covers and he followed. "You're gorgeous," he told me, the sheets ruffling his hair.

"Oh, why thank you," I replied with a smirk. His wrist flailed inches away from my face. I grimaced. "Troy—"

Exasperation doctored his face. "Gabriella, can't we just have time alone without the mention of our… Cutting?" He seemed unsure of the last word.

I whimpered. "But Troy, you have no reason to cut," I protested softly, my eyes watching for a response from him, "My life is pretty boring and the changes it is experiencing are not for the better. I'm on my own in a few months. I don't have anything to my name, just—"

He interrupted. "Me?" he guessed hesitantly, as if maybe he, like I, was uncertain of our future.

I sighed. "Troy, you know very well you won't remember me in a year when you're shooting hoops on the court like people pop Altoids," I replied flagrantly, and instantly regretted the heat in my voice.

"That's not true," he told me, offended. He rolled over and consented to licking his mental wounds by himself, while I contemplated the wall next to us. The paint was blue, like it had been when I moved in the year before. That world seemed so far away. When was it that I enjoyed singing and dancing and theater, and all of it with Troy Bolton? When had _he_ enjoyed singing and dancing and theater, and all of it with me, Gabriella Montez?

There was a rumble outside. I sat up, clutching a pillow to my chest. "Come on," I said, sliding off the bed and reaching for a blanket that had been kicked to the floor. Troy yanked his boxers on and we wandered outside, the night's cool air stinging our hot, sweaty skin. The stars above us glistened as people around shouted random messages, the final pronouncements Albuquerque would hear. I turned to Troy. "Any last words for the year, hotshot?"

As the final minutes commenced, he slipped me into his arms again and danced me around the balcony for a moment, humming some made up tune that made me laugh. His muscles flexing against my body, I looked at him expectantly. "Well, Mr. Bolton?" I asked. "Departing words?"

He leaned in close enough so I could smell his semi-chocolaty breath. "I love you, Gabriella. And I'd walk the earth a million times for you," he whispered, "if it meant that we could stay in this place forever." Our lips met as the shout of 'One! Happy New Year!' rang through the town, announcing a new day, new resolutions, and maybe new habits.

A/N: I actually liked this part. What would you guys say if I made this into a Fiveshot? I actually meant to end this with another scene, but the Troy/Gabriella interaction was extended. -love- Desireé


	4. Knock on Wood

A/N: Okay, I PROMISE Poster will be updated tomorrow. I've just had an insane week, trying to get a Spice Girls outfit together. My friends are making me go as Posh Spice for Halloween, and I have no idea what to wear. :P The school carnival is Friday, so if any of you lovely people have suggestions, TELL ME!!!! And review, of course. :)

I am so ecstatic that this is getting good feedback. I am now extending it to a fiveshot—haha, Lizzie, you're so right. Every time I write a short story, it ends up getting longer. I've only managed to write one successful oneshot!!! Ah, well, such is life. Reviewers get their choice of muffins or cupcakes (which are like muffins with frosting. :D) -love- Desireé

Part Four, Knock on Wood

The lengths cutters went to in order to hide their secret were crazy. I'm sure they particularly enjoyed wintertime, where long sleeves and jackets and sweatshirts could be worn comfortably. And on days with things like practice and Phys Ed, Troy had wristbands and I had bangles. We never went anywhere without fresh bandages, and sometimes we looked to one another for back up. An unspoken agreement had formed between us. Stay quiet about it, and lend a helping hand when needed.

It had come to my attention that thoughts of suicide and the desire to die were two highly different things. The wish of death was flexible—as long as the outcome was the same, you didn't mind the cause of it. Just so long as you were _dead_. But my grave was being dug faster than I could ever have imagined possible. One lazy evening, I pressed the exacto knife into my wrist a little harder than I should have. More blood came, and I was grateful as I ran to the bathroom that my mother was not home. As I ran poured water over my wrist, I started to shiver. "Suicide," I whispered.

…

In the early days of January, my father called me. "Hey, Ella," he said in a happy, somewhat rustled voice. "How's my favorite girl?"

Self-destructive, I thought nervously as I twisted a charm on the bracelet Troy had given me for Christmas. It reminded of him every day, although we hadn't seen each other as much since school started again. Once in a while he'd come over and we'd mess around, but nothing else really. I regretted that somewhat.

"Fine, Dad," I replied softly, "How are you?"

This emptiness of the conversation didn't improve much. It never did, if I could be perfectly honest. But I knew my father was trying—trying to keep in touch, even if he was on the other side of the earth. He wanted to be close to me still, in spite of the distance that physically lay between us. I was grateful for that, too.

"Listen, honey, I have to go. I'll call you in the next couple of weeks, okay?" he asked, and I nodded as one bold tear rolled down my cheek. I suddenly had the urge confess my secret to my father. Now that Troy was a part of it, I couldn't look to him for psychological remedy. We were two people, trapped in a bloody world that no one could understand lest they were in it, too. I needed to get out.

When my father hung up, I sensed the dead air, and inhaled. "Daddy, I cut myself," I said blandly. I furrowed an eyebrow and started over, a dislike of the way I sounded festering inside me. "Dad—I cut my wrists. I do it a lot. Troy does it, too. And it's because of me. I hate that. Don't you hate that? I mean, really, I wish he would stop. But that makes me a hypocrite, right? I just wish he could understand why I do it. He's a basketball hotshot, he's got every girl at his will, yet he chose _me_, and I end up fucking him up. Where is the justice in that?"

Of course, there was no answer. But just to know that he was a phone call away gave me a little comfort. By the end of the month, my life seemed to begin to restore its natural balance. That is, until my I started to lose something I never knew could be lost: my heart.

Growing up, I didn't have an idea of what jealous really was. Obviously, I envied my father for his freedom and girls at school for their stable families, but resentment never came to be the real drive of my emotions. It started with one particular after school scene. Somehow, Troy wiggled out of basketball practice and came over to my house. We strayed from the bed, and the audience—people in heaven who liked to watch us squirm—watched him sit on the ground while I stayed at my desk. He was picking at a scab on his arm. "Why do you still do that?" I asked sharply, clapping a hand to my mouth as soon as the words left my lips. He glanced up.

"We've been over this," he said flatly. Our eyes met and I silently pleaded him to stop. "Gabriella, I don't know why you're so uptight about cutting. It's not like you don't do it."

"But I'm trying to stop," I replied, trying to sound poignant. "You know I'm making an effort, Troy. And it's not like I'm some bucket of talent that would be a huge loss once I died." His eyebrows furrowed and Troy stood up, gripping the side of the desk. I knew I had hit a nerve.

"Stop saying that," he hissed, anger boiling on his face. "Stop saying you aren't worth it and stop saying there's nothing left in your life, blah blah blah, all that bullshit. Because you know what Gabriella? I've tried everything to get you to understand that I'm here. I'm worth it, right? I thought so, at least. I thought I was good compensation for all the stuff we have to bear." His voice trembled. "Don't you understand? My cutting came to life so your habits would die away. It's sacrifice. Because I love you! Gabriella, I fucking _love you_. But what does that mean to you? All this shit that freaks my parents out and freaks your mom out—does it have any real effect on you?"

Before I could answer, although my mouth was dry again which made it hard to respond, he picked up his messenger bag and stormed out of the room. I sat, my arm pressing into the edge of the desk, my eyes staring at the door. "Good job," I sighed to myself, my throat cracking painfully. I didn't know what else to say. "Troy, please, come back. Come back."

…

There was a surprise over the way I reacted to the fight. Yes, we had exchanged I love yous and there had been several, ahem, escapades in my bedroom, yet I never thought we'd end up together. He was bound for the NBA, while I still had no idea what to do with my life. He successfully managed to avoid me at school, and I luckily accomplished composure whenever others were around. This serenity streak soon stopped when Taylor told me Troy had a date for Valentine's Day. I felt like a cartoon, my heart sinking to the bottom of my stomach and breaking in half.

"I'm so sorry," Taylor told me sympathetically in biology class when she noticed the repeated 'fuck Troy Bolton' scribbled all over my notebook. She reached for my pen and capped it, letting it drop into one of our backpacks in between our chairs. I stared down at my graffiti-like writing and grimaced. No matter how many times I wrote that phrase, I didn't feel any better.

"It would be nice to die," I mumbled angrily. Taylor folded my hand so it formed a fist and rapped my knuckles along the desk. I raised an eyebrow at her.

"Knock on wood," she explained. "Keeps the spirits out."

I didn't believe her.

It was then that I realized that thoughts of suicide and the desire to die were quite different. I didn't consider myself suicidal. I just wanted to die. I walked home that afternoon, declining every ride offered to me. A beat was made as my feet marched along the sidewalk, and I bobbed my head, my hair waving slightly as I made my way back to the house. My mother had left a note on the counter, scribbled quickly—'Out with Jim. See you around eleven, G. xo Mom.' I'd read better.

For some reason, the guest room in our house had the nicest bathroom. A large, tiled tub lay smack in the center, and the sinks were made of marble and silver or something like that. I leaned over the side of the bathtub and turned on the hot water, watching the steam rise as it began to fill. The large, floor-length mirror to my left told a story as I unwrapped each article of my clothing. There once was a girl, frail and weak and unfortunate. She cut her body quite often; over time, it had been dubbed self-mutilation. She laughed at this. No such thing. Just something to pass the time.

The girl was pretty, she knew, but didn't have the means to fill the empty spaces where she thought things like _compassion_ and _common sense_ should have gone. Her bare body was curvy and looked like an old photo, embellished in sepia; often it was graced with the presence of another body. She missed his warmth, quite dearly. The way his lips kissed every part of skin within reach. She discerned the one maimed part of her figure—the wrists. The bandages had been wrapped that morning, and she winced as she peeled them away. The wounds had not healed. But that did not matter.

She turned the faucet off, and picked up the exacto blade. The water was steaming. She could feel the heat trap her body as she slid lower and lower beneath the surface, until only the tips of her hair broke the otherwise still water.

The eulogy would be fantastic. To a girl who once loved life and music and a boy. To a girl who once thought that decathlons were interesting and basketball games had value. To a girl who had seen better days. "This is for her," I whispered, and pressed the blade into my wrist. Blood poured from the slash, just as pounding on the door filled the silent room.

"Gabriella?" My mother. Or at least, it _was_ her. "Gabriella, what are you doing?"

Then came the next wrist. The water soon was soiled with a coral red color. I didn't know what it was like to feel death, but at that moment I felt somewhat peaceful. Maybe relaxed, in the few moments I could enjoy myself. And, following the legend that your life flashed before your eyes as it was about to end, I saw Troy.

A/N: If anyone has ever heard the band 'Broken Social Scene' and their song 'Shampoo Suicide,' I imagined that playing in the last part. -gasp- I know, sad, yes? Review, my pets! :) -love- Desireé


	5. The Halfway Point of Second Chances

A/N: I feel somewhat spoiled lately (my mom and I went to get out nails done and I got a massage, too) so I'm going to take the time to have a little moment of silence for the all the evacuees of the recent SoCal fires. I live in Los Angeles, towards the city, so I don't have any wildfire worries, but I do know people who live out there, so you're in my thoughts, everyone!

And back to the story… The responses really mean a lot to me. I'm glad if this has helped anyone—it seems it has a personal message to some of the reviewers. And I thank you guys for taking the time to tell me what you think! -love- Desireé

Heather- Oh, goodness, no. :P I'm still a little young to be exposed to something like cutting, although there's girls at my school who smoke sometimes. My family's pretty grounded, so I thankfully haven't gone through something as difficult as self-mutilation, nor do I know anyone who has cut (to my knowledge, at least). I was just inspired by a preview of the movie to go out on a limb and write purely on imagination. It may or may not have accuracy, but I do hope so! :)

Part Five, The Halfway Point of Second Chances

As life rolled on and I grew up, I never thought about re-incarnation, or rebirth, or samsara. All those legends, lectures, and personal beliefs never crossed my mind twice, until I found myself on the floor of a very bright, white room, wearing pure, bleached clothing, similar to a nurse's outfit. My hair was soft and brushed out, curving around my left shoulder in a side ponytail. My reflection bounced around me; the walls were made of mirrors. No windows, no doors, complete isolation. In a way, it was a little relieving.

I tried to remember what had happened, but the content on my mind had been eerily wiped clean. I knew it had been serious, horribly intense. But what? I observed my arms. They were flawlessly smooth, and the wrists were perfect. That's when I remembered. The cutting. "Hello?" I called out, suddenly conscious of my solitude. "Anyone here?"

Maybe magic had something to do with it as a familiar face abruptly appeared before me, wearing similar white clothing and a bright smile. Sitting across the room was my mother, composed and beautiful and surprisingly happy. "How are you, Gabi?" she asked calmly.

My eyebrows knitted together again. "Not so sure," I said, feeling like a cynic. "Where am I?"

She pondered for a moment, clasping her hands together for a moment and pursing her lips. "What do you call the middle ground? The in between, the halfway point—do you believe in them?" my mother asked. I suppose I still looked confused as Theresa laughed. "I'm asking if you believe in second chances."

I considered this. What would she do if I said yes? "I don't know," I admitted, "Why? What do second chances have to do with where I am now? I thought I committed suicide—doesn't that send me to hell, or whatever?"

Another laugh danced from my mother's mouth. "Oh, but Gabi, that's why life is so wonderful. It grants the option of a _second chance_," she said grandly. "Every death has a middle ground, or a halfway point. It's the time when the deceased speak to their beloved, and more often than not, they learn about themselves more than they ever would have known during their days on earth. How does that sound, sweetheart? I know we've all been a little mixed up lately. Maybe it's high time you find out some new things about yourself."

Her figure melted away before I could respond, and a burst of light blasted in the room before Taylor appeared, wearing a white ball gown that had an obnoxiously wiggly hoop skirt. "Gabriella!!" she exclaimed, and clapped her ivory-gloved hands together. "I haven't seen you in ages. How are you?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Tay, I saw you plenty of times last week. We ate lunch at the fountain a few times, and we've got all those classes together," I pointed out. "Don't you remember?"

"Surely. But do _you_ remember?" A smile enriched her face and she tugged off a glove. I saw, one by one, cuts appear, deeply thrust into the skin of her arm. I gasped, and Taylor waved her other hand over the wounds, which disappeared promptly. "Don't worry," she said, "They aren't real, but they symbolize the notches you've cut into me and everyone else. Hon, you have to remember the domino effect. Your diminishing life made us fall apart, too."

My heart felt heavy as I saw the cuts materialize and vanish, over and over, before I finally yelped in agony and Taylor stopped, pulling her glove back on. "Know this, Gabriella," she said compassionately, "With every cut you made, we felt the pain, too. I believe that was the method of a certain boy we know."

My response, again, was futile as Taylor faded into the mirrored wall behind her. I shouted for her to come back, before my father came into view. "Oh, Ella," he said breathlessly, "You're so beautiful. In fact, if I remember correctly, twice as pretty as the last time I saw you." My body itched to hug him, but it appeared there was an invisible barrier between us that hindered any physical contact.

"Dad?" I asked stupidly. Of course it was him.

"Hi, baby," he said with a smile. "Jesus, it's been a while. I know I haven't done the best job being a parent, but I hope you know I think about you every day. And I wish I could call more often, but sometimes a phone is miles away." I nodded, trying to gather all empathy within me. My father continued: "How are you feeling?"

The words came more quickly than my reflexes to prevent them. "Shitty," I sighed. "And I wish I could get out of this room. Are there _any_ doors? How do you get in?"

He leered and tilted his head back for a moment. "Ah, they warned you were still quite the subject changer," he said fondly. "I can't believe I had forgotten all those traits of yours."

"They?" I asked. He didn't bother to elaborate.

"Gabriella," Christian began, running his fingers through his short, curly hair, "I do hope you understand your mother and I loved each other very much at one point. Some people just grow apart, and we can't help it. There's no telling what fight will occur, or what opinions will butt heads, it just _happens_. I know this just happened." He motioned to my wrists, which were suddenly running with blood, until I blinked and my skin was immaculate again. My father proceeded, "But things like this can be fixed, too, I can assure you. They can turn around and become the best thing you've ever experienced, just based on the result. Where has cutting brought you, Gabriella?"

To the boy I love, I thought. For once, my mind was translated to my mouth. "It brought me to Troy, Daddy," I whispered with a subtle whimper of longing. My father smiled and nodded.

"Yes, it brought you to him. Maybe there would have been other paths, but this one is no doubt the most emotive." The man paused, studying his palms. "I've been all over the world, Gabriella. My hands are worn and rough and calloused with the memories I have created in the last five years, but your entire mindset and body have the earth's history with them. Know that, girly girl. Know you carry the world with you, not on you. The weight of our society is much too great for one girl to handle, although I know you're strong, sugar." He waved and dissolved into the mirrors, leaving me to greet a new face: Troy.

The gentle look in his eyes made me relax. This was the Troy I knew and loved, the old one. "Hey there, Brie," he said softly, and broke the invisible barrier as he reached out sweep his fingertips over my face. "Man, it's been a while."

"Why is everyone saying that?" I asked, my mouth screwing up, reminiscent of the look you got when you suck on something sour. "I saw you and Taylor just at school."

He shook his head sadly. "Well, no, not really," he reprimanded patiently. I clenched my jaw. "What I'm trying to say is, you haven't really _seen_ us lately. It's not your fault; I don't think anyone could have really stopped it unless they knew it would happen before it started. But you've had a blurry vision for a while now. We've been worried. Well, really Taylor has been. I've been too fucked up with my own cutting, as well." He bit his lower lip and I noticed scars on his wrists, not too different than my own. "I guess I tried to, you know, move on to other girls, but none of them even seemed to _want_ to comprehend anything I tried to tell them, not like you could. The last one saw my arms, and she flipped. Literally. We were at a rock-climbing party and she hit her head on the wall."

It felt good to laugh. I twisted my ponytail around my fingers and grinned as Troy looked over me. "Here, though, I know you can see perfectly. That's why I missed you, Gabriella. I missed your smile and your happiness and the way you could tell what was going on anywhere, anytime. You lost that ability after you started cutting. I knew I'd rather lose everything I had if it meant you kept that glow."

Tears blossomed on my eyelashes and my cheeks turned red. I opened my mouth to speak, but words were lost. Troy shrugged. "I know, I guess having perfect vision weakens the other senses. I've been where you are. Times where I know exactly what's happening, but I feel like nothing I do will help it. But don't think that, Brie. You can handle anything, with everything in between. Know that you are _strong_, just like your father said you were." He leaned in, hands covering mine in a flash as he kissed me, before pulling away and whispering, "I still love you."

…

Hospital rooms were incredibly white, I noted, when my eyes opened that one afternoon. I wasn't sure the date or time. All I knew was the sun was beginning to set and there were St. Patrick's Day decorations outside in the hallway. "Holy crap," breathed a voice beside me. I turned to see Troy, who sat along the edge of my bed, his hands on mine. "I thought you were gone."

My wrists were cloaked in a heavy white bandage, different than the normal gauze wrap I had used. My eyes gave Troy a once over, before stopping at his own arms. Thin lines crossed beneath his palms, but no blood. "It's March," I murmured.

"Yes," he replied happily, "It's March. You've been in the hospital for nearly three weeks. I'm pretty sure your mom got sick of me, so I stopped asking a lot of questions, and well, I don't really know a lot else, just that you had some sort of severe blood loss. But you're back. You're right here. And you're not going anywhere. I need you to stay here."

I remembered the night in the gazebo. "So sentimental," I said with a grin. He blushed. "But it's nice. I think I needed that before—someone to let me know they loved me."

"Well, I'm your guy," Troy said, lacing his fingers through mine. My mother arrived a moment later, with Taylor in tow. The girl carried a basket of cards and some balloons that said 'Get Well Soon' on the front in some crazy font. They both gasped softly at the sight of me, and Theresa trembled slightly with her eyes glossy. Both finally swooped down and hugged me, sobbing into the pillow my head lay upon, demanding I never go away again. Troy stood back respectively, and I comforted my mother and friend with a weak assurance of my presence coming in the form of a smile and a nod.

After a while, the hype of my recovery began to dwindle as I ended all the phone calls with friends and family members. Troy and Taylor left to find food after we all vouched for mutual hunger. My mother waded in the corner, sorting paperwork and talking on the phone. I hadn't the slightest idea how it could have ever been possible when my father emerged.

"Dad?" I asked again. But this time I wasn't so sure.

The man in the doorway smiled. "Hello, Gabriella," he said in a doting voice. We exchanged looks for a moment before he came over to sit on the edge of my bed. "Gosh, what a beautiful girl. Like your mother, I assume you realize?" Theresa looked up from her seat in the corner and smirked slightly, obviously floored by the middle-aged compliment.

"Of course," I said properly, and tried to sit up to hug him. My father patted my cheek.

"Don't strain yourself," he warned. "Build up that strength, you understand? Now, before we get too sucked into one another's lives, I have to grab a bite to eat. Theresa—you want to join me?"

I watched tentatively as my mother looked up. She pondered for a moment before nodding. "Sure," she agreed, standing up and looking over at me. "G, Taylor and Troy should be here shortly. You okay on your own?"

Act like I'll kill myself again, I thought with a little resentment. Still, I said yes, watching them go, keeping their respective distance as they turned a corner. Parents. One blink and soon Taylor and Troy manifested, stocked with plates from the cafeteria downstairs. "It's no Twin Palms," Taylor grumbled, "but I guess the cafeteria lady didn't give much of a crap over our personal taste."

Five star or not, I was starving and grateful for anything. We sat for a minute quietly, as I reached for chips and dip and Troy insisted on getting me water to go with the snack. "I'll excuse you two while I go to the restroom," Taylor said with a wink, pardoning herself from the room. I made sure to thank her later.

"So, I've been out for almost a month," I said, glancing outside at the hallway decorations.

"I missed you," Troy replied, his eyes bedazzling my own.

"We're such a soap opera," I said, "Let's write a story about ourselves and sell it to some hotshot producer. Maybe it'll be an uber somber love story about two teenagers who—"

"—can't seem to shut up for one second?" Troy guessed, putting a finger to my lips. He bent toward me and smiled. "I know you aren't going anywhere, but it's still a little hard to remember you're staying. So, just, let's let our bodies do the talking?" When a kiss sparked between us, I shut up obligingly.

We came up for air and Troy stirred his fingers across my face, as I realized this was that second chance I wanted. He stopped to run his thumb across my lower lip and smiled. "You know, Gabriella, thank goodness you're still here, because this whole time I was pretty worried I'd have to go on that road trip across the country all on my own."

He always did know how to speak my language.

A/N: I _think_ I liked that. :) I'm not sure. But altogether, I enjoyed this chapter, and I definitely enjoyed writing the story! Please review, I will forever be grateful. -lots of love- Desireé


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